


after each midnight

by greenery



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Light Angst, M/M, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Spooning, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:54:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28126464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greenery/pseuds/greenery
Summary: Charles is not entirely sure how they ended up in this cabin anyway, instead of the brand new hotel in Strawberry as Dutch had proposed when sending them out on this hunting and scouting trip.Set during Chapter 2.
Relationships: Arthur Morgan/Charles Smith
Comments: 6
Kudos: 54





	after each midnight

**Author's Note:**

> title is once again taken from 'no glory in the west' by orville peck 🤠

When Charles closes his eyes and the world goes dark, the smell of pitch pine is almost overwhelming. It’s a good wood to build a cabin like this, solid and heavy, and the sturdy planks the builder must have chosen at least half a century ago are likely the only reason this little house just below the snow line is still standing. No leaking roof, no damp corners. The interior is basic but in relatively good shape, the brick chimney still works, the ancient kettle on the stove is surprisingly rust-free.

But it’s the smell that makes Charles sink deeper into his ragged armchair, that makes the corners of his mouth lift ever so slightly. It’s resin and earth, pine needles and fog, rain and storm, dusk and dawn, and it’s so intense as if the trees had been cut down not more than a fortnight ago. The newspaper on the table had proved them wrong, of course: _May 2, 1868_ , a surprise to both of them. 

“Guess it’s maintained by hunters who travel through here,” Arthur had speculated and Charles had found himself nodding in agreement, although the reason why hunters would leave a newspaper untouched on the kitchen table for 31 years is beyond him. 

He’s not entirely sure how they ended up in this cabin anyway, instead of the brand new hotel in Strawberry as Dutch had proposed when sending them out on this hunting and scouting trip. Charles had suggested going past Owanjila Lake and into the Big Valley, then retiring to Strawberry for the night and maybe set out to the lower part of the valley the next morning. Arthur had agreed, happy to follow along, and indeed the hunt had been bountiful. That was until, while they were busy skinning a doe in the middle of a meadow, Arthur had spotted a massive elk, only just disappearing into the woods. He had grabbed Charles by the arm and urged him to go after the elk that would secure the camp’s stew for at least two weeks. Charles had nodded reluctantly as they both mounted their horses. Then the rain had started and they lost the elk’s track. Dusk fell surprisingly quick, Arthur’s horse bucked him off when she nearly stepped on a snake, and by the time they had retrieved the frightened animal, the woods around them were pitch black. While following their own tracks back down the mountain, the scene illuminated only dimly by their lanterns, they had come across this little hunter’s cabin. More luck than brains, really. 

Charles isn’t one to complain, and neither is Arthur. Charles suspects they both prefer this over the fancy Strawberry hotel. Frozen and soaked to the bones and desperate for a warm drink, Charles had brewed them a coffee while Arthur dealt with the main fire. 

Now their coats are hung up for drying, and their simple cotton and linen clothes underneath are already as good as dry. Charles indulges in the heat of the fire on his face and finally looks up. It’s good to sit in silence like this, his hands lazily exploring the dents and and bumps of the hot tin cup, his eyes searching for Arthur and finding him in the corner of the room, holding a candle to examine a huge reddish-purple bruise on his ribcage. Remnant of today’s fall, painful reminder of an unsuccessful hunt. A whole day wasted.

“It’s bad?” Charles says, awkward combination of question and statement.

“I guess. But it’ll have been worth it when we get to that elk tomorrow.”

Charles hums into his coffee. “I reckon he’s gone. And made a proper fool of us, too.”

“Must’ve been one hell of an animal to make a fool of both of us,” Arthur shrugs. “Maybe he’s earned himself one more chance.”

“I suggest we wait for the weather in the morning and decide what to do. ‘S no point in going after him in this rain.”

Arthur nods and buttons his shirt up again. The storm still rages outside, tirelessly shaking the wooden shutters. Their rattling sound is a strange comfort, as is the creaking of the wooden beams keeping the house upright, a reminder that whatever is happening outside is being kept away from them. Charles shuffles his chair closer to the fireplace and watches the flames lick away at the logs Arthur had found beneath the kitchen stove, completely dry. 

The pitch pine cabin is a blessing, but Charles’ thoughts inevitably wander to the horses, hitched to a ramshackle shed outside that is really only big enough for one of them. They are used to it of course, but still. 

Arthur noisily rummages around the kitchen and returns to the fire with another steaming cup of coffee in one hand and his weathered journal in the other. With a grunt, he sits down on the floor in front of Charles, leaning against his legs. 

“Been thinking about the horses,” Arthur says, “this ain’t a night _anyone_ should have to spend outside.”

“I know. Hope they don’t catch a cold.”

This little book of mystery. Charles has never caught so much as a glimpse of its pages, he only knows that Arthur both draws and writes in it, and that he’s very secretive about it. 

So when Arthur opens the journal now so that Charles can easily see the yellowed pages and orderly letters over Arthur’s shoulder, he wonders for a second if Arthur may have seriously hurt his head during the fall. He doesn’t dare to break the silence, only watches as Arthur begins to sketch with quick and practised strokes, sometimes messy but somehow always eerily precise in the end.

Their elk comes to life on the left page, antlers spanning almost across the width of the page, completed with a simple _Hunting with Charles_ below its hooves. 

The page to the right is reserved for a more detailed sketch of the mantelpiece in front of them. Every now and then, Arthur looks up to check a form, the proportions… His pencil’s scratch is the only sound as he carefully builds up the shattered picture frame, empty flower pot, broken oil lamp, line by line. Brick by brick by brick, filling out almost the whole page. When he is finished, Charles only mutters, “It’s a gift, being able to create like that.”

Arthur snorts. “Not a very useful gift, if you ask me. I’d rather you teach me how to create those fire arrows of yours.”

“Any time,” Charles says as Arthur tucks his journal away again.

They both stare into the flames for a while, Charles still somewhat baffled, until his free hand finds his way into Arthur’s hair. Slowly, lost in thought, he tousles a particularly unruly curl and with a sigh, Arthur lets his head fall back onto Charles’ knees, eyes closed, miles away. Continuing to twiddle with the sand colored strands, Charles looks around the small room again, watches the shadows dance on the walls, and stops abruptly when his gaze stumbles over the four orderly lined up boots by the door. 

It’s a simple image, colored sepia by the fire, brown wood paneling, wooden door, a pair of maroon boots and his own black ones next to them. And yet… it makes Charles feel heavy somehow, suddenly aware of the shadows always at their heels, always chasing. And him and the others always running, and chasing too, but chasing what exactly? Wildness? Domesticity? The dream of both? He nearly asks Arthur to sketch the boots by the door, but realizing that it would never be the same, he abstains. 

They stay like this for a while, somehow entangled, somehow apart. Charles is well aware of Arthur’s warmth against his shins, his hand, and combined with the heat still seeping from the fireplace, it’s almost too much. Arthur’s hair soft between his fingers. Just as he feels his right leg go numb from not being moved in for what must have been twenty minutes, Arthur clears his throat, eyes still shut, cup of coffee still untouched on the floor next to him, going cold. 

“Can I--,” Arthur hesitates for a moment, “can I hold you?” 

It’s raw and vulnerable and Charles thinks of four boots by the door. “Of course.”

This isn’t the first time they’re doing this, but every time it feels like it is. It has turned into their little game, only there is no winner or loser. Whoever asks first, _can I hold you?_ Sometimes, _can you hold me?_

The narrow bed is out of question, so Arthur stands to fetch their coats, spreads Charles’ on the floor in front of the fireplace and folds his own as a poor substitute for a pillow. 

Charles puts the two tin cups into the sink and, in a vain effort to provide a bit more space, pushes the armchair aside. He lies down on his side, facing the dying fire, coarse cotton against his cheek, and then he feels Arthur’s hand on his ribcage as he settles down behind him. Firmly, he takes the hand and pulls it to where it comes to rest atop his heart. Practised movements as Arthur shuffles closer, burying his face in the nape of Charles’ neck, his hair, breathing him in. 

He can feel Arthur’s heartbeat against his spine, is aware of every inch where their bodies touch, stomach to back, thigh to thigh, and he’s never felt safer and warmer and more _home_.

He watches some sparks rise from the embers and intertwines their fingers on his chest. “Maybe we should rest tomorrow. That bruise looks pretty nasty.”

“Hurts pretty nasty, too.”

“We won’t be missed if we take a day or two longer.”

“As long as we bring a few deer, no.”

Charles smiles. Sweet nothings. He’s not sure what it is that they share, and neither of them dares to ask. Charles had almost brought himself to finally say something back at Colter, but in that exact moment, he had spotted the two does and all was forgotten again. He hates what’s between them, unsaid and therefore not real. 

“Does it have to be said to be real?”

Arthur lets his thumb slide over Charles’. “Don’t think so, no.”

The vibration of his voice sends a tingle down Charles’ back. He tries his best to enjoy their days and nights together for what they are, he really does, but sometimes the comfort feels empty. When he lies awake at night in camp, Javier snoring gently next to him, he thinks of disappearing into the land more often than he would like to admit. No traces left behind, his few belongings, the only family photo he owns, stowed away safely in Taima’s saddle bag. He’s not sure what keeps him from doing it.

Behind him, Arthur sighs softly, half-asleep already, it’s been a long day.

The camp is far away now. 

He thinks too much. Eyes closed, Charles focuses on the smells around him again:

Smoke from the fire, earth from both their coats, horse and leather from Arthur.

Damp linen, a hint of snow. 

It calms him.

Skin on skin, Arthur's breath against his shoulder. 

Branches whip against the shutters, howling wind, soft snores.

It calms him.

~

Morning comes too fast and when he wakes, Charles is cold and alone.

He sits up and stretches. A pale light now falls through the shutters that were so violently shaken only a few hours ago. It’s quiet, and Charles can even pick out muffled birdsong in the distance. The cabin lies in twilight, the fire reduced to faint embers. He stands, stretches again, cracks his neck, so tired of sleeping on the floor. His breath forms a little cloud when he yawns, the temperatures must’ve dropped significantly after last night’s storm.

Charles remembers Arthur flush against him, tangling their legs, and Charles remembers falling asleep to his heartbeat. 

The door is slightly ajar and only a pair of black boots remains lonely next to it. Beginning to shiver from the cold, Charles moves Arthur’s turned-pillow coat aside and slips into his, still sort of warm from his body heat and smelling of horse and leather. 

Arthur can not have gone far without his coat. 

Charles puts on his boots and opens the door fully. It can’t be later than 6am, and he has heard right as not too far away, several songbirds attempt to one-up each other with their melodies. The air is still humid and smells of yesterday’s rain, cleansed. A quiet nicker reminds him to look after the horses, and at first glance they appear to have survived the night all right, both happy to collect their share of caresses from him. 

As expected, he finds Arthur not far from the cabin, on a little ledge between the trees, overlooking Big Valley. A checkered blanket is wrapped tightly around his shoulders, eyes lost somewhere in the woods on the opposite side of the valley. The moon is still visible, Charles notices, hanging low in the sky and preparing to give way for the rising sun. But not yet. Their world is still tinted blue, and ahead of them a fresh and untainted day. 

“Blue hour,” says Charles and huddles up to Arthur from behind, resting his chin on Arthur’s shoulder, their hands meeting beneath the blanket on Arthur’s chest.

Arthur squeezes Charles’ hand and keeps silent, and usually Charles would accept that as an answer, but the day is so young, so much seems possible. “What are you thinking?” he asks finally.

“Nothin’ much.”

“That’s what I thought.” The remark earns him a chuckle. Charles embraces Arthur a little tighter and and rocks them gently left, right, left, right, playful almost. “Come on,” he teases and can hear the smile in Arthur’s voice when he replies.

“Fine.”

The valley below them is suddenly bathed in gold, the sun’s first beams pouring just so through the tree tops and illuminating the mist rising from the woods. 

“I was thinking about … about family, I guess. What it means. What makes someone family. Hosea. Mrs Adler, all alone.”

“What makes someone family?”

“I don’t know. I’d really like to think it doesn’t matter. If you feel like you’re family, that’s enough - you’re family.”

Charles eases his swinging, suddenly solemn. “We’re probably both not the ideal candidates to be discussing the definition of family, huh?”

Turning his head ever so slightly, almost bringing his nose to Charles’ cheek, Arthur replies, “Probably not. Or maybe we are. Who cares?”

“Yeah.” Below them, near Hanging Dog Ranch, Charles spots a group of pronghorns grazing peacefully in the early light. “So, are we gonna go after that elk, or…?”

Arthur shrugs. “I guess a bit of a break wouldn’t do me no harm.”

“Very wise,” Charles grins and turns to go and collect some herbs for that nasty bruise. 

  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> thanks so much for reading <3


End file.
